The Tale of Saint William The Martyr
by kieyra
Summary: He's no stranger to pain. Will & Elizabeth angst, Jack & Elizabeth on the periphery. Spoilers through DMC.


-xXx-

He's no stranger to pain. Blacksmithing's a harsh craft, once you've paid your time doing scutwork and they let you try your hand at the forge. In the years between his first crude spike and his first serviceable broadsword, he'd been burned, bruised, scraped and singed so often he hardly bothered to wince anymore.

"There's two kinds o' blacksmiths in the world," old Brown the master smith had said, "them as been burned, and them as yet to be burned."

Maybe that's why Will can ignore the lash-marks on his back; the pain is fiery and familiar.

The other pain is new. Elizabeth can't even look him in the eye, there in Tia Dalma's thatched hut, and the questions in his mind--_Did I really see you kiss Jack? Elizabeth, who have you become?--_die in his throat, unasked.

Because Captain Jack Sparrow is dead, and that's another kind of pain that's new to him. Why should he grieve over a man who'd lied to him so many times, who'd thrown him to the wolves more often than not? And yet, there it is--Jack's dead, and it all feels terrible; terrible and _wrong_.

And his father--his father is still trapped in the eternal service of Davy Jones.

Elizabeth's shoulders shake, a muted tremor, but she still won't meet his eye.

The glimpse of the kiss plays out over and over in his mind--Elizabeth the willing participant, no way to deny it. No way to mistake what he'd seen. The pain rises again, bringing bitter anger along with it.

_It's not even guilt she's feeling,_ he thinks. _She can't look at me because I'm not _him_, and right now she can't stand me for that._

But blacksmithing teaches you endurance for pain; you learn it fast or you find another trade. It teaches you patience, to think twice before you strike. Rather than lay out accusations, he offers the only pittance of consolation he can: "If there was anything could be done--" He's not sure he means it, but it's the best he can think to say, the only way to acknowledge the truth of her suffering.

And then Tia Dalma starts speaking pure nonsense--nonsense, at least, until Barbossa comes swaggering down the steps.

After that? All wagers are off.

-xXx-

"Perhaps there's an end in sight to all of this," Elizabeth says, a few days later, on the deck of the ship they 'chartered' out of Port Royal. Barbossa at the helm, as insane as it still seems. Elizabeth's smiling, but her voice is nervous, uncertain. She stands just outside arm's length. "Perhaps we'll have our wedding day after all...someday..."

But Will's been thinking it all through, thinking too much, and he can't let the charade go on. "I saw you with Jack," he says simply. "The day the Pearl went down."

Elizabeth looks surprised, then pained, but she has the aristocratic grace not to deny it. "Will. I owe you an explanation."

"An explanation?" It may as well be a cannonball to his chest. He didn't realize he'd been wishing so hard that she _would_ deny it. Wishing she would look confused instead of sad, that she'd tell him he'd been imagining things, that she would throw herself into his arms and smile up at him and say, _Will, you're being ridiculous. _

_It's you I want. Of course it is._

None of these things happen, and they stand there until he steps forward, touches her cheek.

"You don't owe me anything," he says.

Then he leaves her there, walks off to go belowdeck.

If there's a part of him still wishing for reprieve, there's a deeper, older part that's been whispering in his ear, warning him this day was long past coming. She'd changed after their first encounters with Sparrow and Barbossa. She'd agreed to marry Will, but she'd gazed a little too long at the horizon after Jack made his escape.

And then, later, there was the masquerade ball at the Governor's mansion: she'd scandalized her father by showing up in breeches, ragged waistcoat and tricorne, a cutlass strapped at her side. Oh, everyone pretended it was charming, the Governor's daughter dressing up like a pirate after all her ordeals, but Will knew she didn't bloody well _care_ whether they thought it was charming or not.

And she'd become enthralled with risk. During their betrothal, she'd started sneaking Will into her bedchamber at night--she'd somehow bribed or threatened her nurse to keep quiet. It wasn't that he _minded _the nights they spent, whispering and laughing...and...

_In her bed, nervous and shaking but exhilarated. Elizabeth kissing his neck, running both palms over his chest, tugging at the buttons of his waistcoat. Laughing if he tried to stop her. And he didn't try for long. Then, his hands up and under her thin summer nightdress, scarred and callused fingertips awakening to the feel of her profound softness. His own shirt and waistcoat somewhere on the floor now, while her fingers charted every muscle of his back..._

_His right thigh thrust between both of hers as she pushed herself hard against him..._

_Wanting desperately to be a fool for her and somehow stopping just short--night after night of it, hour upon hour of sweet frustration, leaving before dawn; night after night till he could barely keep his eyes open during the day, and the guards he passed remarked pointedly upon the tiny bite-marks on his neck, and how very tired he looked..._

And he'd held himself back, somehow, right up to the night before their wedding.

"Idiot," he whispers to himself, in the dark.

-xXx-

Six weeks it takes, though it seems much longer.

A map stolen from an ancient, hidden ruin in the heart of Saint-Domingue--never mind the revolution they inadvertently started--and then a nightmarish time spent traversing the strange, treacherous waters Barbossa led them through.

And all the many sights and horrors they'd as soon forget.

But in the end, they brought Jack back. The _Pearl_ is lost forever, but Captain Jack Sparrow is back from the World's End and in the land of the living.

They all laugh and cry and throw their arms around him, even Will; but Elizabeth waits till last. Which is a kindness, because it gives Will a chance to look away, to walk to starboard, to look instead into oncoming night.

Where Gibbs finds him, and wordlessly holds out a bottle. Will just shakes his head.

"Take it, lad," Gibbs says in a kindly, fatherly way. "Time will kill or cure, but rum'll shorten the trip."

So Will uncorks the bottle. You couldn't avoid the grog, shipboard, but he'd tried to stay away from the straight liquor. He glances over his shoulder, sees Jack and Elizabeth together murmuring in low voices, their heads close, the two of them framed against the last glow of sunset.

He drains a quarter of the bottle in one go.

Gibbs slaps him on the back. "Aye," he says. "That's the way."

-xXx-

Another month, then two; another battle with Davy Jones. And the business with Beckett and Norrington--Beckett's tangled ambitions, his plots against the King--somehow unraveled from the inside by Elizabeth's father, just as they themselves show up to end the story of Beckett and the heart of Davy Jones forever.

And Will's father is finally, truly freed.

Barbossa takes them back to Port Royal, then disappears in the middle of the night with the commandeered ship. No one is especially surprised.

Soon the messages begin arriving from London: Weatherby Swann restored to his post as Governor; a full pardon for Will, for Elizabeth and even Norrington.

And a letter of marque, inscribed to one Captain Jack Sparrow.

"Jack Sparrow turned honest privateer?" asks Will doubtfully, as they walk the narrow alleys of Port Royal's merchant district.

"Nothing honest about privateering, Mr. Turner," says Jack. "Except maybe the bookkeeping, and only then if you can't find any other way."

"I still don't get it. What's in it for you?"

"Ah, Mr. Turner," begins Jack--for that's what he's taken to calling Will these days, once he realized that 'boy' or 'lad' was asking for a fight. "Perhaps you failed to notice, upon our last gathering with the esteemed new head of the East India Trading Company, a peculiar sound."

"A sound?"

"The sound, Mr. Turner, of money. Lots and lots of money, the kind that isn't gold and doesn't go _clink_, but what exists all the same. The sound of money spinning the wheels, changing hands, and so forth."

"I still don't know what you're talking about."

"Look, just trust me, there was a sound, all right?"

"Fine, yes, the sound of money. And?"

"And perhaps you similarly failed to notice the new ship in port." And in fact they were coming upon the port now; Jack had been steering Will that direction all along.

And there _is_ a ship, a new, beautiful ship he's never seen before, big enough to be taken seriously, light enough for fast maneuvering and manning by a small crew. "What ship is that?" he asks.

Jack grins as wide as Will's ever seen him grin, a blinding glitter of gold. "That ship, Mr. Turner, is the _Black Pearl II._"

He takes Will by one shoulder, turns to face him, and his grin has disappeared faster than a trifle in a jewelry shop.

"And now, I must ask the question--can you sail with me? Can you sail with _us?"_

-xXx-

In the early days on the _Pearl II_, he heard the sniggering of the crew sometimes, mostly Pintel and Ragetti, when they thought Will was safely out of earshot.

"St. William the Martyr," they whispered of him. "Stayin' aboard and pinin' after his true love wot been stole by the Captain."

And he nearly left, in those early days. He thought of going back to Port Royal and finishing up his apprenticeship, if Mr. Brown could be gotten sober enough to draw up the papers. Then moving on. Maybe even to the colonies of the new world.

But he _liked_ the ship. He liked the hard work in the bright sun; you had to keep a smithy dark even at high noon, because you had to judge the heat of the fire by the color of the flame. He preferred the open air, even when it came down to swords and pistols drawn, which was often. And he liked the unpredictability of the sea.

Mostly, he didn't feel he belonged anywhere else. He'd been a good blacksmith, and a fine bladesmith, but the ocean was in his blood now.

Even if Elizabeth did spend her nights in the Captain's quarters.

-xXx-

A year past, now a layover in Tortuga. They've coin to spend and deals to make, supplies to lay in for the next trip out. The crew's gotten used to good rations and the finer things, fruit and spices aboard, their ears and fingers be-ringed with the gold of successful ventures. (Although in truth Will doesn't remember how he came by the first gold hoop earring, nor the tattoo on his bicep of a certain old Aztec medallion. He woke up with the both of them at once, some months back.)

Gibbs has a new cutlass he'd commissioned during their last stop, and he unsheathes it now in their usual tavern to a chorus of _Ooohs. _Will barely glances at it. That was another life.

But: "Will--ye was a bladesmith once, was ye not?" asks one of the newer crewmates.

Will smiles, bottle in hand, remembering old Mr. Brown and _his_ bottle. How clearly Will's come to understand the appeal. And back when Brown spent more days conscious than not, he used to prattle on about...about...

"Hephaestus," Will begins, feeling expansive from the liquor, and strangely nostalgic about Mr. Brown's lectures. He takes the cutlass from Gibbs, turns the edge of the blade to catch the torchlight. He flips it around, balances it lengthwise on one finger. The table grows still, all eyes on him. "Hephaestus was the artisan-blacksmith of the gods." He lazily tosses the sword in the air, whirls around and catches it behind his back, to general laughter. "Now, everyone knows the story of Prometheus. But what many _don't_ know is that Prometheus stole..."

He catches sight of Elizabeth, coming to their table with a tray of mugs, and his words falter.

"Stole..."

"Who stole what, then?" asks Elizabeth, sitting down at Jack's side, passing around the mugs.

Will still can't find his voice. He sits down, uncorks his bottle instead. "I forget," he says. When he looks up, Jack's watching him intently.

"Prometheus," Jack says, not taking his eyes off Will. "Prometheus, they say, actually stole the fire--the fire what he gave to man, savvy?--from the _forge_ of Hephaestus; Hephaestus bein', as young Mr. Turner says, the blacksmith of the gods." More silence. Will takes another hard pull from his bottle. When he looks up, Jack's still watching him. Jack cocks a half-grin, says, "You ask me, mate--a classical education's far overrated."

Will laughs despite himself, the hush ends, and Gibbs starts in with the telling of his favorite tale: Sir Francis Drake, sending his English fire-ships into the heart of the Spanish Armada. The story, told so many times it's threadbare, still gets ragged cheers in all the right places.

"Sacked Cartagena and Cádiz afore that, he did," finishes Gibbs, ending the story as he always does, "All under the commission o' Queen Bess herself. Now _there_ was a proper privateer."

More cheers. Then toasts: "To Drake! To Drake! God rest his thievin' soul!"

Will drains the last of his bottle, then smashes it on the ground. "Drake died alone of the bloody flux," he mutters.

But the sound of breaking glass hardly merits a second look in this place, and his voice is lost amid raucous laughter and the sound of distant fistfights. He leaves the tavern with a heading for Scarlett's new saloon, to find what distraction he can. But as he walks, familiar footsteps overtake him. Jack, in his half-stumble, comes up and claps him on the shoulder.

"Where are you off to, then?" Will asks sourly.

"Off to spend the night in the bosom of the ocean, as it were."

Will eyes him.

"To sleep on my ship," Jack clarifies.

"And Elizabeth?"

Jack shrugs. "Our darling Lizzie can take care of herself." He winks. "In case you hadn't noticed."

And he's gone.

Scarlett's is crowded, and Molly and Annie--his favorites--are busy. So he drinks himself to sleep under the stars.-xXx-

Two years later, Gibbs dies in his sleep. They bury him at sea, as is fitting and proper.

Will does a double-take, seeing Elizabeth emerge from belowdecks that afternoon--her long hair, usually pulled back under a faded scarf, has been cut off entirely, clipped as short as a schoolboy's.

"Gibbs always said having a woman aboard was bad luck," she says, tears standing in her eyes.

"Elizabeth--" begins Will. _You're still a woman,_ he thinks. But with the short hair, and the breeches and boots, and the sun cutting early lines into her already angular face, she does look more like a boy than ever.

"Well, love," interrupts Jack, moving to intercept her, "I reckon that's a few less tavern-brawls for us, what with the defending of your maidenly honor against unwanted advances and so forth." He puts an arm around her waist, and she wilts into his shoulder.

True, somehow it was usually Elizabeth herself who'd picked the fight, and then Will doing the brunt of the defending--with Jack cheering them on from the side. And later, Will'd be the one holding Elizabeth's long, sun-bleached hair out of the way when she'd had too much rum or whisky for her weight.

And maybe those are the real reasons he wishes she hadn't cut it off.

But things change.

Will steps into Gibbs' _de facto_ position as first mate and quartermaster--Jack and Elizabeth have long settled into a strange kind of co-Captaincy--and inherits his tiny private quarters belowdecks. It feels strange, sleeping in the low bunk after some years in a hammock. Strange having his own space, a place to put his few belongings. Even a desk, the easier to write letters to his father, who went back to their people in the English hills.

_Dear Father, _

_Today we buried Mr. Gibbs at sea, having died in his sleep in what one may hope was a peaceful passing.  
You will recall him as a good man and a fine sailor..._

Ol' Bootstrap Bill had enough of the sea for one lifetime. Will can't blame him. Sometimes he even thinks of joining him.

Just not yet. Not today.

-xXx-

Another six months, another layover in Tortuga. Cool winter night, cool as it gets in the tropics. Comfortably drunk, down the old tavern, back in a corner near the fire. Feeling no pain.

A feminine body suddenly next to him, no doubt one of many acquaintances he's made in port. He slips an arm around her. Gold in his purse, enough for an evening of company, or maybe just an hour. Not enough to worry over if he gets rolled.

"Hello, love," he murmurs.

"Hello, Will."

Elizabeth's voice.

He pulls away reflexively--_not mine, not mine_--but somehow she's still there. She's closer. Arm across him. Hair tickling his nose. He's still got nowhere to put his arm save 'round _her_. She's got a bottle. He's got his own, or he had one, but then he remembers it got sadly empty. So it's good she's there. Elizabeth's always willing to share a bottle. But she's usually not this close.

"You smell good," he murmurs.

"Had a bath. But I'm drunk, Will."

"Not sober myself, t'tell God's own truth. Only my bottle, my bottle is...empty."

"I've got a bottle," she reminds him. And shows him.

"Right, right."

"Ship in port," says Elizabeth. "Big one. Out of London, hear tell. Fresh shipment of _whores._" She says the last word a little too loudly, and some of the local ladies look at her, then look away when they recognize crewmembers of the _Pearl II. _

Feminine arm snaked tighter about him. Breath faint on his chest. He swallows. "Where's Jack?" he asks.

She tenses, and Will realizes she already answered the question. "Right," he says. "Sorry."

She passes him the bottle, he drinks, and hands it back.

"There's a new Inn opened, cross the way," she says. "Where I had a bath. I hired a room there."

"That so?"

"Yes."

Another drink. Then a small hand takes his. Pulling him to his feet. Along behind her. Stumbling through the crowd, the tavern, the muddy street. Laughing.

Inn is quieter. Little room. Huge compared to a ship. He usually doesn't bother. Can't remember if he's supposed to know why they're here.

Not until Elizabeth kisses him.

Sudden surge of sobriety. Almost. She doesn't give him a chance to speak. Up against the wall, hands all over him. They both stumble, they both go down, laughing. Bare planks of the floor not as comfortable. Easier to get boots off, though. Bed nearby, almost too much effort, not worth the time he'd have to stop touching her.

But: "Come on, get _up_." Laughing, pulling at him again. He lands on top, catching himself on elbows. Rest of the clothes come off. Everyone's. Can't remember if he's doing something wrong. Can't remember what wrong _is_. Her body's changed so much, lean and strong and sunbrowned, like his. Gold rings in her ears, like his. New scars for both of them. Her hair's still short, almost blond from the sun. It's all right. Eyes still pretty. Lips still soft. Skin too, the places that don't get as much of the sun and the salt, anyway. Like there, and _there..._

She gasps, moans. Look on her face of surprise. Surprised that Young Will Turner would do such a thing, know such a thing.

What did she think he'd been doing, all those nights ashore? _Praying?_

He grins. Again, harder.

"God, Will." Gasping after breath.

But she's got tricks of her own, tricks that soon have him clenching his jaw and gripping the bedpost.

Over on top of him now. He's a little less drunk, world's spinning less, which is good. Because he's ready for it, when she slides down onto him. Hands on narrow hips. Pulling her down to him, bringing her mouth to his. She's soft everywhere.

He'd always pictured their first time more romantical. But then he'd always had some foolish ideas about the way things worked.

_Bang, bang, bang, _bedpost against the wall, she's stronger than she looks, and they both laugh.

But she slows down, eases off, more kissing now. Stops a moment, looks into his eyes--

Moment goes on too long. Not laughing now. Look on her face, sad and scared--how long has that look been there?

"Elizabeth," he says. Hands at the sides of her face. "Elizabeth, it's all right."

But then she smiles and kisses him, and they go on. But they're both too drunk to finish, and after a while it's silly, and they get to laughing about it. And he's happy to just lie there, stinking drunk, with Elizabeth sprawled across his chest, her breath gradually slowing.

And they sleep.

Will awakens the next morning with no real recall who or where he is. But his head is pounding and the usual, solemn oath is echoing in his mind:_ never again._

But a jumble of memories begins to trickle in. And--_Oh, God._

He looks to the other side of the bed, but it's empty. He looks up, sees Elizabeth sitting at a ramshackle dressing table. Staring at him with bloodshot eyes.

"Good morning?" he says. "Er. Did we--?" But he already knows they did. After a fashion.

"You're a fool," she snaps.

He's not near enough awake to fathom her anger, but he tries anyway.

"Elizabeth, I'm sorry, last night--I was--" How is this his fault? He struggles to remember.

"You can't just wait around for me, Will."

He sits up, winces against the sunlight, then collapses back onto the bed. Exhaling, he says, "I'm not waiting."

"But you still love me." It's an accusation and a question both.

He rubs his miserable eyes. "It's true. I never stopped. But it's not the same thing as waiting."

"If you never stopped loving me, why didn't you try to win me back from Jack?"

"It wasn't what you wanted."

"That's a silly reason."

"And yet, here we are."

"You're a fool, Will Turner," she repeats, as though he hadn't got the message.

"I know."

He sits up again, swings legs around to the floor, starts pulling on his boots.

"You could have fought for me," she suggests from behind him.

"I'd have been a bigger fool if I tried."

"_Then why did you stay at all?_" Will sighs, falls backwards onto the bed again, drags a pillow over his face. He thinks of all the myriad answers to her question: how there was nowhere else for him to be, how he'd come to realize that he'd found his _family_, his only true family. How the ship is his home. But if she can't see those things herself--

He feels the bed dip, her slight weight on the other side of him. "I'm sorry," she says.

"I'll go if you want me to," he says, his voice muffled by the feather pillow. "But I don't believe it's me you're really angry with." She's silent for a moment. And he feels her stand from the bed, hears her walk to the door. Maybe he's offended her.

"I don't want you to go anywhere, Will," she says. Then the door opens and closes, and she's gone.

He staggers back to the ship that afternoon, there to oversee the deliveries from the different merchants, tally up their expenses and their inventory. Bribe the Customs man. The only real difference between pirating and privateering, Jack was absolutely right, was the bookkeeping.

As for last night, the pieces he can remember--he assumes it'll never be spoken of again.

And he's laid by a private cask of real scotch whisky in his quarters, in case he has trouble forgetting.

-xXx-

A few days later, they've shipped out again, off to run up and down the Lesser Antilles, to harass the French corsairs who've been trying to disrupt British trade routes. Sack a few of their ports. Business as usual.

Late one night, Will is awake, reading by candlelight in his bunk. It's a gentle, balmy night, the ship near to becalmed in open water. It's quiet, just the little creaks of the ship and the distant snores of crewmen.

Even as quiet as it is, it takes him a moment to realize someone is tapping softly on his door.

When he opens it, Elizabeth is there, her eyes shining with unspilled tears, clutching a letter in one hand. She's wearing a brightly-colored silk dressing robe, a souvenir of one of their raids, one of the few girlish fancies she still keeps aboard.

"Elizabeth, what's wrong?"

A tear escapes and spills down her cheek. "May I come in?" she asks, as though they're eighteen again and she's visiting for tea.

Old habits are hard to break. "Of course." He waves her inside, gestures to the only chair, the one at his desk.

It's strangely awkward. There's almost no privacy on the ship, which is something they've all gotten used to. You learn when to look the other way, and you don't talk about certain things, because there's nowhere to go if tempers get out of hand. He can hardly remember how to behave, confronted with this quiet, private, _sober_ moment. But he sits on the edge of his bunk, facing her.

Another tear has slipped down her cheek. "Tell me," he says, "what is it?" She hands him the letter. "This caught up with me when we arrived in Tortuga."

He takes the letter, unfolds it. It's from Norrington. Will scans the letter, but it's not long before he finds the words, "_Sad duty to inform you..."_

"Your father," he says. "I'm sorry, Elizabeth."

And he aches to take her into his arms, but it's been too long since he's known where he stands with her. She sits composed, wiping the tears away one by one as they spill down her cheek, a wet stain spreading on her silk sleeve.

"Tortuga," Will says, realization dawning. "You knew. The night in the Inn." And further realization. "You knew and you didn't tell me."

"I haven't told anyone."

"But you didn't tell _me_."

She flinches, and he sees that they're at the heart of it now.

"I didn't think I had the right," she says. "To come to you with my burdens. Not any more."

He can think of a dozen responses, a dozen stinging parries to everything that statement implies, but instead he just pulls her to her feet and holds her in his arms.

While she cries, he says, "You should have told me. I don't care what you think you do or don't deserve. You should have told me." He says it over and over.

He doesn't know how else to make her understand.

And while he's still got her in his arms and doesn't have to face her, he whispers in her ear: "Did you _want_ me to fight for you?"

The question that's haunted him for days, made him re-think everything he's ever done, every decision he's ever made.

"No," she says. "It would have ripped everything apart. I didn't want that."

"And now?"

"Oh, Will," she whispers. Almost exasperated. And then kisses him. Which he supposes is all the answer he's going to get for now.

It's different this time, far different from their drunken night together. It reminds him of the days of their betrothal, the secret hours in her bedchamber. Except there's no hesitation now, no inexperience, no secrets left. But they try to be quiet, together in his small bunk. Slow and quiet, moving to the rhythm of the waves and the creak of the hull. _Not_ like the night in the Inn, and not like the past, either. It's all gone dreamlike and surreal, and Will's not sure she won't just disappear from beneath him.

He grits his teeth for silence as he enters her.

And he tries to go keep going slowly, to make it last; but Elizabeth's always been accustomed to getting what she wants, and she gets it from him now. "Harder," she whispers, over and over, "_Harder."_ Fingers gripping his arms to the point of real pain, and it becomes impossible to hold back. Harder and faster, till she shudders beneath him, teeth at his shoulder nearly piercing the flesh. And that's the end of his endurance, and his own shuddering comes upon him then.

Breathing together, heavily. She hasn't disappeared. She clings to him, sticky with sweat and salt air.

"I'd still fight for you," he whispers in her ear. It's the only endearment he can offer. "Don't doubt it."

And she cries again. Whether for her father, or the past, or some unfathomable womanly reason, Will doesn't know.

They fit themselves together in the bunk and fall asleep.

She's gone before the sun rises.

-xXx-

The next day, Will thinks he catches an odd look from the Captain, and a wink, but with him it can be so hard to tell.

That night, he stays up late, hoping and expecting she'll appear, but she doesn't. He falls asleep, disappointed and confused. And drunk, that too.

On the second night, he hears the telltale knock. He's at the door and opened it so fast she's still got her knuckles raised.

"Elizabeth--"

"Shh, Will." And silences him.

It goes on that way for weeks. She spends one night with him, and the next night--away. Easier not to think about where. And then it turns into two nights with him, one night away.

Then three.

And when the day comes that Elizabeth's spent a month of nights in his cabin, oftentimes just to sleep, he finally decides to risk this strange, secret happiness, and ask her outright what it all means.

But as usual, she beats him to it.

"He doesn't love me and he never will," she says, a small voice in the dark at his side.

Will is silent.

"He loves the ocean," she goes on. "He loves the horizon. Mostly I think he just loves whatever comes _next_."

It's true. _I'm_ _sorry,_ he thinks, but he's done with apologizing. Instead he says, "You thought you could change him."

"He hasn't even noticed I've been gone." she says. "I was a fool."

"Maybe so."

"And you were a fool for waiting for me, Will Turner."

"I wasn't waiting."

"And yet, here we are." Her voice is softer now, teasing.

"Here we are," he agrees, "Miss Swann."

-xXx-

END


End file.
